


The Kindred Spirit

by 852_Prospect_Archivist



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Drama, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 01:07:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/792272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/852_Prospect_Archivist/pseuds/852_Prospect_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim makes a new friend.  Blair learns that the way to a Sentinel's heart isn't necessarily through his stomach.<br/>This story is a sequel to The Last Experiment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Kindred Spirit

**Author's Note:**

> For MJ and Mrs. Ashe, who created one another, with love and gratitude. 
> 
> My thanks to Vicky and Marion, for sharing your memories so generously (both past and present); to Babs, the Original Female Character; to TACS, whose amazing "Officer Steele" print inspired that whole scenario; and to veterans everywhere. 
> 
> Running jokes from an earlier story, The Last Experiment. (At least, _I_ thought they were jokes.) :D

## The Kindred Spirit

by Marilyn

Author's disclaimer: Not mine.

* * *

The Kindred Spirit  
by Marilyn 

"Love is the greatest painkiller." - William Burroughs 

"That is easily the most gorgeous thing I've ever seen," Harve breathed. 

"Yeah," said Jim. 

"What I wouldn't give to have all that power between my legs." 

"Yeah," said Jim. 

The object of their mutual slack-jawed desire, a 2000 model Harley-Davidson Ultra Classic Glide Touring Bike, resplendent in two-tone colors of aztec orange and diamond ice, stood incongruously and unattended in the alley behind their building. 

"Twin-cam 88 vibration isolation mounted engine, sound system with handlebar and remote passenger controls, cruise control, CB voice-actuated intercom, electronic speedometer, laced wheels," Harve inventoried in a hushed whisper. 

"Yeah. I don't suppose this could be my birthday present from Sandburg," Jim added quickly, suddenly regaining the ability to form a complete sentence. 

Harve snorted. "Dream on. The kid loves you, but he don't worship you. No, this belongs to the lady who just moved into 207. Old Gray ran into her in the laundry room this morning." 

"Hmm. Married or single?" 

"Ellison, your birthday is a couple of days away, right? If Sandburg sees that gleam in your eye, you'll lose out on your one chance a year to have a big juicy steak and home fries." 

"Yeah," conceded Jim, disappointed. "Well, that's all we need, a biker chick and her buddies roaring in and out of here at all hours of the night," he groused. "As if there isn't enough damn noise around here already," he added, glaring meaningfully at Harve's table-saw, which was set up nearby and ready for use. 

"You and the kid using the grill tonight, Jim?" Harve asked with a shit-eating grin. 

Jim sniffed the air involuntarily, willing it to be true despite the evidence. "I wish," he finally conceded. 

"Good, I need power for my saw. Ellison, what's with that little nose twitch you do? You some kind of warlock?" 

"I don't twitch, you asshole. HEY, SANDBURG!" he called up to the third floor. 

A moment later, Blair emerged through the open doors of the balcony, wiping his hands on a dish towel. "Yes, Master?" he asked with an evil leer, then flushed when he saw Harve standing nearby. He was dressed in what Jim privately thought of as his 'Saturday clothes' - an untucked light-blue, v-necked shirt, over a pair of faded jeans that were more holes than cloth. 

Jim loved Saturdays. 

"Hankins wants to borrow the extension cord," Jim said, pushing the words through his gritted teeth. "Unless we need the grill?" he added hopefully. 

"Oh! Right. Uh-huh," Blair acknowledged, dashing Jim's hopes for good. He disappeared briefly and returned with a heavy-duty, bright-orange extension cord, plugged it into an outside outlet, and dropped the other end over the side of the balcony. "Knock yourself out, man." 

"Thanks, kid," Harve called up, but Blair had already vanished. 

Jim turned to beat a hasty retreat before the now-powered saw escalated to an ear-splitting whine. 

"One more thing, Jim. I know you've got a high-stress job, buddy, but I've got to tell you...you ever lay a hand on that kid...well, other than...oh, geez...anyway, I'll come up there and kick your ass." 

"What the _hell_ are you talking about, Hankins...?!" 

"You know damn good and well what I'm talking about. Your little...problem. You may think no one notices, but it's pretty damn obvious from the way you keep hollering at us to turn down our expletive-deleted televisions or radios or stereos or alarm clocks first thing every morning. Look, buddy...for your sake and for the kid's...get some help. No, no, no," he said, tapping the side of his nose as Jim sputtered. "I won't say another word about it. But you just watch yourself." 

* * *

Jim took the steps to the loft at a jog. "Chief, what the _hell_ did you tell Hankins?" he burst out as he crossed the threshold of his home. "He's gotten the idea that I'm some kind of a....oh...um...sorry." Having dialed down his hearing, he had failed to notice that they had a guest. 

A long-legged redhead sat close by Blair on the sofa, her wide, cornflower blue eyes hanging on his every word. She had, Jim quickly assessed, even more curves and built-in comforts than the Harley parked outside, a fact made obvious by her clingy, scoop-neck blue sweater and short leather skirt. A weird assortment of household junk lay spread out on the coffee table before the pair. 

"Hey, Jim," Blair greeted him amiably. "Babs, this is my partner, Jim Ellison. Jim, this is Barbara Curry, my new assistant." 

"Like the spice," she giggled, extending her hand. 

"Ah," said Jim, unsmiling. "I'm allergic to the stuff, myself." 

"Babs is an anthro grad student," Blair put in quickly. "We're going to do a research project for Cascade Area Medical Center. They're looking for ways to improve their obstetrics unit." 

"Putting your maternal instincts to use again, Chief?" 

"Well, looking after you has made me an expert," Blair murmured, Sentinel-soft. Babs giggled. 

Sensing Jim's growing impatience, Blair wrapped up the visit a few minutes later. "I think I can handle the rest of these myself. I appreciate your help, Babs, but there's no point in taking up any more of your free time. I get paid to do this. Finally." 

"I enjoyed it. You come up with the coolest assignments. And thanks again for the CAMC gig, Blair," Babs cooed, enveloping Blair's hand in both of hers. "I'm looking forward to working with you. You have a reputation for doing whatever it takes to drive your point home." 

Jim rolled his eyes. Sentinel senses were not required to hear that come-on. 

"You've got everything it takes to be a great cultural anthropologist, Trout. You just need to have more discipline." 

_Trout...?_ thought Jim. 

"Mmm...are you offering?" she asked suggestively. 

Jim immediately decided he'd had enough of Babs the Trout. "I think Doctor Sandburg has his hands full right now," he said, coming up to drape his arm around Blair's waist and pull him closer. 

Blair looked down at the big hand now anchored firmly to his belt loop, but wisely said nothing, as it was his favorite pair of jeans. 

"Oh...right," Babs sputtered. "Well...um..." 

"I'll call you Monday," Blair supplied, walking awkwardly in tandem with Jim to open the door, like two Monkees walking down the street. 

Babs gave them the funniest look. "OK, thanks. Nice to meet you, Jim." 

"Yeah. You, too," Jim said, even more insincerely. 

The second the door slammed shut, Jim swung Blair around and cupped his almost-clad ass possessively, sliding his little finger through one of the holes. "Chief, you're killing me here. No wonder your spirit animal is a wolf." 

"That is so not fair. Wolves are monogamous, man. They mate for life. C'mon down here," Blair said, pulling Jim's head down to his. 

A few minutes later, somewhat mollified, Jim sighed and fetched a Corona from the fridge. Frowning at the barely cool bottle, he kicked the compressor until it sputtered to life, which made him feel even better. "Another one of your T  & A's trying to lure you from the dark side, Chief?" 

"That's _T.A._ , Jim. I think a little hands-on experience will do her good." 

"Dammit! You're doing that on purpose, aren't you?" 

"I can't help it," Blair said, his voice choking with laughter. "You're so easy!" 

"Not as easy as she is," muttered Jim under his breath. 

"I heard that!" Blair said from the couch. "You forget my hearing is better than it used to be." 

"She really have the credentials for that sort of work?" 

Blair shrugged. "So what if she thinks 'oreopithecus' is a fossilized cookie? She has very strong maternal instincts." 

"So I noticed." Jim flopped down on the couch beside his Guide. 

"Though not as strong as yours," Blair said with a trace of irritation. "Drop it, Jim. We were grading papers." 

"That old excuse," Jim said. "You don't 'grade papers', Chief. You run them through the Scantron." 

"Yeah, well... _this_ stuff won't fit through the slot." 

"What is all this?" Jim asked, gesturing to the unlikely assortment of objects strewn across the coffee table. 

Blair tossed the small, round object in his hand to Jim. "Here...catch." 

Jim found himself blinking down at a disembodied Barbie Doll head that had apparently been used as a dog's toy. 

"What do you think?" 

"I think we've got ourselves a homicide here, Chief. Somebody's decapitated Babs." 

"According to my student, that is the skull of an ancestral human who was mauled to death by ravenous man-eating Pliocene clams." 

"Chief, I don't claim to be a forensics expert - but in my experience, human remains are typically bone, not molded plastic. And clams don't have teeth." Jim tossed the unfortunate head back to Blair. "What is this?" 

"I asked my students to write about objects from their own homes as though they were artifacts found on an expedition. It teaches them to view the past without arrogance and the present with objectivity." 

"Oh. Like the time you purposely got snockered to test whether hangovers temporarily simulate Sentinel hearing?" 

"Yeah," Blair agreed. "Until I found a better way," he added, absently stroking Jim's long, denim-clad thigh. "Learn by doing, that's my motto." 

"Feel like getting in a little practice?" Jim asked. He reached out to capture the marauding hand a split-second too late. 

Blair made a quick notation in the margin of the field study he was grading. "Sorry, Jim. These papers should have been finished last Thursday." 

"You're trying to do too much, Chief, between your classes, the free-lance stuff, the station..." 

" _You_ are the only thing that wears me out, big guy. Not that I'm complaining." The hand returned. 

"Maybe I should take over all the cooking and cleaning." 

"Ha...nice try, Jim." 

"Aw, let's face the facts, Chief. You're a slob. Not that I'm complaining," he added hastily. 

Blair smiled, unperturbed. "You're more allergic to cleaning products than you are to dust and mold. I only have your best interests at heart." 

Jim sighed. "So, when are we eating? More importantly, _what_ are we eating?" He sniffed the air uncertainly. "Spaghetti?" 

"Close. Nopales Rellenos." 

"Oh...Mexican, eh?" 

Blair sucked in his cheeks and blew out. "You could say that." 

"Sandburg, what exactly are 'nopales'?" 

"Jim, you know I like to be creative in other places besides the bedroom." 

"Yeah...like the bathroom, the stairs, the dresser, the kitchen table, the sofa, the fire escape..." Jim inventoried with a wide smile. "Don't change the subject." 

"Don't breath down my neck unless you mean business." 

Jim got up and snagged his still-warm jacket off the rack. "Wonderburger, here I come." 

"OK, they're stuffed prickly pears, all right?" 

"Prickly pears...?!! We're having _cactus_ for dinner?" 

"I took off all the needles," Blair said defensively. 

Jim sat back down with a dejected sigh. "How long have I got?" he asked, like a death-row inmate contemplating his last meal. 

"An hour yet. I'm waiting for Delores." 

"Why is Delores coming up here?" Jim's voice held a note of panic. 

"She's going to bring me some homemade pasta sauce to serve with the nopales," Blair explained, a slow grin spreading across his face. "Should be here any minute." 

"For Chrissake, Sandburg," Jim exploded. "You get _paychecks_ now. You don't have to scrounge food from the neighbors or pick up road kill. Do your hunting and gathering at the Safeway, like normal people." 

"Did you know the invention of cooking caused the evolution of modern human sexual behavior? Because cooking necessitated collecting food in one place rather than eating it where it was found, there was the risk of theft. Food and sexual favors were traded for protection," Blair looked up and grinned. "Sound familiar, oh Blessed Protector?" 

"All I can say is, the sexual favors had better be good enough to make up for the food." Jim snatched the errant hand and used it to pull an unprotesting Blair into his lap. He encircled Blair's back and bent him back over his arm, intent on the lush lips that were already parting for him. Half-way to Blair's mouth, he stopped, listened intently, then dropped him like a stone. "Delores is coming." 

Blair crashed down amid the sofa pillows and flailed on his back like a turtle, while Jim tried equally hard to slide out from under his Guide. 

There was a rapid knock at the door. "Yoo-hoo. You boys decent? I hope not," Delores called through. 

The former Army Ranger fled up the steps to the comparative safety of the bedroom, leaving a somewhat dazed and disgruntled Blair to answer the door. 

Delores Hankins breezed past Blair into the room. Everything about Harve's wife was expansive...big hair, big voice, big nose, big boobs, tempered by a big grin and big heart. "As requested, sweetheart," she announced in her heavy Brooklyn accent, holding out a Mason jar. "I don't even want to know what you plan to do with it." 

"Thanks, Dee. We're lucky to have the lady who makes the best red sauce in Cascade for a neighbor," he said, pecking her cheek. 

"Well, we're lucky to be living in the same building with a policeman _and_ a doctor," she said indulgently. 

"Doctor of _anthropology_ , Dee." 

"A specialist," Delores waved her hand. "Even better." 

"No, see, we study people of different cultures, live how they live, and ask lots of questions about the things they do. Like how they organize their households, what kinds of work they do, the histories of their families and village, about their sex lives, friendships, politics, and things like that. I explained all that at the party, remember?" 

"All I remember is how cute you looked with that laurel wreath in your hair." 

Jim sighed, remembering. Blair had still been wearing it - and nothing else - when they finally got to bed on the night of his investiture. "This one!" he had decided, groping Jim, who was, thankfully, the only one still present. "The finest in all the land! Strip him, oil him and have him brought to my bedchambers post-haste!" But unfortunately, neither the triumphant hero nor his muscular love slave could stay awake for further pleasantries, done in by alcohol and the mariachi band, respectively. 

"Speaking of which," Delores interrupted Jim's recollection. "You want I should bring you one of my hair nets so's you can finish dinner?" She ran her fingers through Blair's curls. "You'd be such a beautiful boy without all that hair." 

Jim paused in the act of changing his shirt to peer over the railing of the loft, making a mental note to clean the tops of the kitchen lights as he did so. 

"Delores...hair is the source of a man's virility. His potency," he said, moving close enough that Delores backed up a step with a nervous titter. 

"Ha! Guess you're outta luck, huh, Jim?" Delores leered up at Jim appreciatively, and he hastily retreated back from the railing. 

"So what do I owe you?" Blair prompted, pressing ever closer. 

Delores, now backed up against the kitchen counter, smacked his chest playfully. "That's all right, baby. One day you come and ask me questions about my sex life. Long, detailed questions." 

"Oh...ah...Harve's been pretty frisky lately?" Blair asked, shooting a guilty look in Jim's direction. He lowered his voice to Guide timbre. "Or have you got another guy on the side?" 

Upstairs, Jim shivered involuntarily. 

"If you ever come available, sweetheart, I'd be tempted. No, it's those herbs you mixed up for me," she said with a wink. "I'd better go dish up supper," she added. "I mixed it in the frozen yogurt tonight!" She reached for Blair and they exchanged a noisy, mutual kiss. 

The second the door closed Jim came charging down the steps, pulling a sweatshirt over his head as he did so. "Jesus! You're going to kill those two!" 

"But what a way to go." 

Jim glared at Blair, who was busy wiping bright red lipstick from his mouth. "I swear to God - every woman you meet! What's the real problem, Sandburg? You want out? 'Cause I've got to tell you, that's what it's beginning to look like to me." 

Blair paused to stare incredulously at him. "That's bullshit, Jim. It's just taking me awhile to adjust." 

"To being with a man...?" 

"No, dammit - to being monogamous!" Blair said, laughing nervously. 

Jim did not appreciate the joke. 

* * *

Blair cautiously approached the open balcony doors an hour later. "Dinner is served, man," he announced. "And I seasoned it with the l-u-v herbs. Not that we need 'em." 

There was no response from the balcony. Blair quickly stepped out to peer at his partner, relaxing when he saw that Jim's eyes were focused and squinting against the late afternoon sunshine. 

"Whatcha looking at? Hotel guests on the other side of the bay leave the curtains open again?" Blair grabbed the telescope and began to focus. 

"It's gonna rain...there's a storm out over the ocean," Jim said, taking a deep breath of ozone-charged air. "The rain hitting the water sounds like steaks on the grill." 

"Jim," Blair warned the pouting Sentinel, laying a hand on his shoulder. Jim broke off, wincing in pain and covering his ears as Harve once again fired up the saw on the street below. 

Blair quickly reached out and wrenched the power cord from its socket. The saw shut off with a long, dwindling whine of disappointment. 

"Sandburg, what the hell are you doing?" Harve yelled, as the young PhD peered over the balcony anxiously. 

"Weather forecast says rain, Hankins. Pack it in before you fry, man." 

"You're crazy. There's not a cloud in the sky! Ellison's the one who's under the weather, isn't he? You OK up there?" 

"Trust me on this. Besides, Delores has dinner ready...and she's got a very special dessert in mind. If you catch my drift." 

"Yeah...? Guess I am a little hungry," Harve muttered, reluctantly disengaging the other end of the cord. Blair reeled it in triumphantly, as though a ten pound rainbow trout was dangling from the other end. 

"Thanks," Jim sighed, collapsing on a deck chair, too grateful to question Harve's assumptions. "God, I hate it when that happens," he said, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "I feel so damned vulnerable. I had my hearing wide open...if you hadn't been touching me, it would have been a lot worse." 

"Well, that's why you've got me to watch your back. And your front," Blair leered companionably. "Your human surge supressor." 

"I think you've got that backwards. I only surge when you're around." Jim slumped in the chair. "What would I do without you?" he mused. 

He didn't sound happy or grateful, Blair decided, soberly regarding his lover's bowed head. He sounded...afraid. 

Jim suddenly found himself with a lap full of Guide, as Blair straddled his legs and rested his hands on Jim's shoulders. 

"Demonstrate your gratitude," Blair demanded. 

"I'm prepared to eat prickly pears for dinner. How much more accommodating do you want me to be?" 

"Pears are delicious," Blair insisted, leaning closer. "Not to mention one of the four basic kissing techniques." 

"What...?!" 

"Y'know.... Blair leaned forward until his lips touched Jim's. "Pears," he murmured against Jim's mouth. "Peach-es...plums...and...ALFALFA!!" 

"Please, sir, can I have some more?" Jim pulled Blair closer and took his time over a second helping of alfalfa. 

"See how much better it is when you don't gulp down your food?" Blair said, kissing down Jim's neck. 

"That's it....mmm....I'm turning vegetarian," Jim avowed, running his palms up and down Blair's thighs. 

"Oh, no, Jim. Protein is a very important food group. Think of the things you'd miss out on. Tongue, for example." 

Jim moaned his agreement into Blair's open mouth. 

"And that protein drink you've become so fond of lately." 

"Oh yeah...I've always been a meat and potatoes kind of guy," Jim said, unbuttoning Blair's now full to bursting jeans and quickly exposing him. "I know Grade-A prime when I see it." He smiled with satisfaction at the expression of ecstasy on his Guide's face as he curled his fingers around the heavy cock. 

"Uh, Jim...?" Blair's voice held a note of hysteria. "We're outdoors. In broad daylight. Airplanes and Microsoft intelligence satellites are passing overhead." 

"Yeah, how about that," Jim murmured without breaking his rhythm. 

Blair laughed, a short bark of lecherous understanding. "God, Jim," Blair moaned, raising up on his knees. "You are a fucking _connoisseur_. Literally and figuratively." The old deck chair creaked ominously, the short leg tapping the floor rhythmically. "Harder. You are good...you are...yeah, just like that, baby...so good. How did you...oh, shit...ever get as good as this?" 

"I used to milk the cows on my cousin's farm." 

"Lucky cows." 

"We used to squirt that hot, creamy stuff right into our mouths." 

"Moo," said Blair, his hands tightening on Jim's shoulders. 

Jim slid far down in the chair and began to demonstrate his technique, transferring his hands to Blair's flexing backside to prevent him from bucking off the chair. He applied relentless suction as Blair helplessly fucked his mouth, making him work for it. 

Blair tried to be quiet and failed miserably, coming explosively a noisy minute later. 

"Jim?" he mumbled weakly, voice muffled. 

"Yeah?' asked Jim, arms supporting 150 pounds of sweaty, spicy, barely-sensible Guide. 

"Remind me to send a check to Farm Aid." 

"Right," agreed Jim with a smile. "You OK?" 

"My knees hurt and I think I popped every vertebrae in my back. I'm fucking fantastic." 

"You realize this is one more piece of furniture we can scratch off the list. Only thing left is your computer desk..." 

"Ouch," said Blair. "Though I'm intrigued by the intellectual challenge." 

"...and the cooking island." 

"Eeew." 

"Speaking of which...you said something about the nopales...?" Jim prompted. 

"Aren't you full already?" Blair murmured against Jim's neck. "Or was that just the appetizer?" he asked suggestively, shifting against Jim's groin. 

Jim laughed. "Don't ever leave me, Blair," he said. "I'd starve." 

Blair stiffened, and not in a good way. Taking hold of the arms of the chair, he pushed himself up so that he could look into Jim's face. "I think that's my line," he said quietly. 

"What...?!" 

Blair slid his palm up Jim's inner thigh, stroking his flaccid penis through the denim. "You didn't even get hard." 

Jim laughed self-consciously. "Sandburg, I'm ten years older than you. It happens." 

Blair briefly hung his head before shoving his damp hair out of his eyes and looking up at Jim. "For the last time...I am not going anywhere. Until you can accept that, you'll always doubt me...like you did today, over Babs. And Delores, for godsake. It hurts not to be trusted. And it makes me wonder..." he broke off, biting his lip. 

"Don't do that, baby," Jim said automatically, reaching out to smooth the generous, slightly swollen pad of Blair's lower lip. "I trust you more than I've ever trusted anyone." 

"I know that. But exactly how much trust is that, exactly? Enough to give me everything, without holding any part of yourself back? Can you ever learn how not to be alone, Jim?" Blair laid his hand over Jim's mouth when he would have spoken. "I'm wondering if...if you're fucking me to keep me happy, so I'll stay. Because if you're just lying back and thinking of Peru, I'd just as soon not...unless we find that we can't help ourselves, of course...although that's just a theory..." 

"Godammit, Chief!" Jim interrupted, instantly furious. He seriously considered hoisting his Guide's bare ass over the side of the balcony. "And if I _do_ like it? You'll lay down and do your Guidely duty, is that it?" 

"Jim, you know I love being with you. Didn't I just prove it? But you need to understand...however you want to play it, I'm staying. There's no obligation. So there's no need for pretense. You can tell me how you really feel." 

"Don't do me any favors, Sandburg," Jim snarled, shoving Blair off his lap. "Pretense? My God. You wrote a book about me. You can practically read my mind. And who just crawled into whose lap and begged for it? This is about _your_ insecurities, buddy, not mine. I sure as hell am not leaving _you_." 

"I know," Blair said, hitching up his jeans. "You can't." 

And despite his denials, Jim felt a rush of fear at those quiet, certain words, and felt the certainty of an unwanted truth tugging at his mind. 

"But I'm tired of being the rope in the tug of war between your need and your resentment," Blair finished. 

"I can't believe this," Jim said, pacing the tiny balcony like a caged circus cat. "One minute fucking, the next minute fighting." 

"I'm not fighting," said Blair, his voice calm and reasonable, as it had been throughout the entire conversation. "I just want to know how you really feel. More importantly, I want _you_ to know how you really feel." 

To Jim, Blair's gentle tone sounded patronizing and manipulative. "Why not have it both ways, Sandburg?" he asked sarcastically. "We'll fuck like bunnies whenever our 'biological imperative' strikes, and otherwise it'll just be business as usual...?! I can't believe that you... _ow_! Dammit!" he broke off, putting a hand to his ear. 

"What is it now?" Blair asked, voice edgy but concerned. 

Jim pushed Blair away. "The motomama downstairs has a leaky faucet that sounds like Victoria Falls right about now." 

"Mosoi ua Tunya," Blair corrected automatically. "'Smoke That Thunders'. Appropriate." 

Stalking into the loft, Jim, snagged a rusty nine-millimeter crescent wrench from the messy pile on the table. 

"Look here, Chief. The femur of a juvenile Tyrannosaurus Rex." 

"Well, I guess you'd know one when you saw it." Blair watched in frustration as Jim headed for the door. "Where are you going with that?" 

"Fishing for Trout." 

"What...?!" 

"Just taking your advice, Sandburg. I'm going to go check out the biker chick with the fancy Harley and the bad plumbing. Don't be surprised if I don't come back for a good long while." 

"I'm down with that, man," Blair snapped, his words punctuated by the sound of a slamming door. 

* * *

Two hours later, Blair laid aside an inflated red, white and blue condom which his student had described as a patriotic noisemaker. He scribbled "95" in the margin of the field study, taking off five points because it reminded him that he obviously wasn't getting any tonight. Or maybe never again. 

With a sigh, he got up to pitch the now shriveled nopales into the trash, washed his hands thoroughly and took Jim's birthday steaks from the refrigerator. Leaving them to marinade, he went out onto the deck and lit the grill. Soon a bovine smoke signal of apology was wafting down to the apartment below. 

As he tended the filets, Blair suddenly glimpsed Jim crossing the alley, guiding a slender figure with a hand on the small of her back. Blair squinted against the deepening evening shadows, but without his glasses was unable to make out her features or hair color. If it was red, he would throw himself over the railing to the pavement below before he would let Jim leave. 

After a few moments of quiet instruction, Jim mounted the bike, his companion swinging up behind him smoothly. Both donned helmets, and the Harley roared off into the twinkling Cascade twilight. 

* * *

Blair took three quick breaths and knocked rapidly on the door of #207, then listened shamelessly for sounds of suspicious activity within. 

He stumbled backwards when the door opened after an unexpectedly brief interval. Blair found himself face-to-face with his new neighbor. Her face was framed by a soft cloud of disobedient light brown hair, and her blue eyes were strikingly vivid behind thick glasses. Her narrow face was softened by round cheekbones that became prominent as she smiled at him inscrutably. 

She was also, Blair estimated, at least 70 years old. 

"Hello," she prompted, as he stood speechless. Her voice was tinged with an accent Blair couldn't place. "What may I do for you?" 

"Uh...hi there. Ms. - ?" 

"Ashe. Jean Ashe," she said, extending her hand. 

"I...I'm Blair Sandburg. From upstairs." Perhaps this was the younger woman's mother? 

"Oh," she said, obviously startled. Apparently she was as surprised by his appearance as he was by hers. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Dr. Sandburg. Please, come in." 

Nonplussed, Blair followed her into her loft, picking his way among the partially unpacked boxes and haphazard stacks of possessions. "Thank you - and, uh, it's just 'Blair,' please. I'm still not used to "Doctor". 

"Don't let him fool you, Jean," said Jim from the living room, where he was comfortably ensconced on the sofa, one of the few pieces of furniture in the room. "He loves it. Every scrap of paper in the loft has 'Blair J. Sandburg, PhD.' scribbled all over it." 

"Jim tells me that your doctorate was conferred just last week." 

"Uh...yeah. No thanks to him," Blair said, shooting Jim a look. "The detectives we work with went together and rented a billboard near Rainier that said, 'Thank you for passing me, Doctor Saunderson', _before_ I gave my defense," he explained. 

"I'm telling you, I didn't know a thing about it," Jim said, in the same tone in which he might have said, "I'm telling you, I don't know how that guy broke his jaw while I was interrogating him." 

"Yeah, well...who was responsible for the Goodyear Blimp circling overhead?" 

"Coincidence," Jim said, smiling lazily. "I did know about the pre-defense pep rally, though. There were cheerleaders, a pep band, a bonfire - the whole nine yards," he explained to Jean, who was laughing merrily at the whole scenario. 

"Oh - is that for me?" she prompted, indicating the wine bottle wedged under Blair's arm. 

He suddenly remembered the home-made mead he'd brought with him as a means of self-defense and possible instrument of revenge. "No! I mean. Yes. But." Blair gingerly extended the bottle. "That is, it probably needs to age a bit longer." 

"Guy downstairs uses it to strip furniture with, but it attracts bees," Jim said bluntly. 

"Oh," Jean replied, clearly confused. "Well, how about a nice glass of root beer? And please, have a seat - if you can find one." She bustled off into the kitchen area. 

"If you need a toothbrush, I can fix you right up," Blair called after her, trying to make amends. "Jim keeps extras for me to scrub the floor with! Is _she_ the biker chick?" he whispered incredulously, the moment Jean was out of earshot. 

"Yep," Jim said with a shit-eating grin. "Why, were you worried, Chief? Mr. 'I-Am-Too Mature-To-Be-Jealous'?" 

"You are..." Even as Blair reviewed his repertoire of colorful language, he realized that ex-Ranger Jim had heard it all and would only be amused by a half-assed attempt at creativity. "...an asshole," he finished, sincerely if ineffectually. "If you knew all along, I swear to God, they will never find your body." 

"I was just as surprised as you were." 

"Then why the fuck have you been down here so long?" Blair grumbled, but in reality he was so relieved that his fears had proved groundless, that he almost grinned back - until he noticed the box of donuts sitting on the unopened carton which served as a makeshift coffee table. 

"Enjoying your cop-steaks?" Blair asked snidely, remembering his two ruined dinners. 

"Umm," said Jim, around a mouthful of what appeared to be his fifth double-glazed. 

"So tell me - how did you explain that you knew her faucet was leaking?" 

Jim thought a second and looked surprised. "Y'know," he said, swallowing, "she didn't ask me. And there were two place settings at the table, as if she'd been waiting for me to show up." He washed down the donut with a long pull of root beer, then sneezed explosively. 

"I thought you hated that stuff." 

"Sandburg," Jim interrupted impatiently. "This lady fed me Krispy Kremes and Wonderburgers. She let me drive her Harley. She's a veteran. I would now lay down my life for her, much less drink a little root beer." 

"Jesus, James! You had Wonderburgers, too?" 

"I'm so sorry," said Jean, coming back into the room in time to hear the question. She handed Blair a souvenir glass which read "1992 National Capital Horse Show". "Did we ruin your dinner?" 

_Both times,_ Blair thought, though he shook his head in polite denial. 

Jim had the grace to look guilty. "It was my fault," he put in gallantly. "This one pulled a coin check on me," he said, smiling at Jean, "so I had to buy her a drink." 

"Excuse me?" 

"The Rangers have this tradition. Every unit has their own special coin. If someone calls a coin check, and you don't have yours on you, you have to buy a round. And then when she offered to let me ride her Harley, well..." Jim shrugged, as if this should explain everything. 

"Yeah? Who's he?" 

"Blair!," Jim glowered, more pissed that his partner didn't seem the least bit impressed than he was by the off-color joke. "I'm sorry, Jean, he was born in a barn." 

"How did you know? I never told you that," Blair said to Jim with mild surprise. 

"It was so nice to have a guided tour of the city," Jean said. "I love going down roads I've never been on before. It's beautiful here...the water, the mountains, the lovely parks. And I still can't get over this view," she said, gesturing to the windows, which offered a slightly truncated version of Jim and Blair's own perspective. "Apparently, I have the two of you to thank for getting this place so cheap." 

"Our reputation precedes us," Jim commented smoothly. Blair could only manage a strangled sound that was meant to be a chuckle. 

"Oh, I like a bit of excitement. Imagine how thrilled I was to learn," Jean said, addressing Blair, "that _the_ Jim Ellison is my new neighbor. I recognized him immediately from all the magazine and newspaper articles. Just a little less hair." 

The chuckle Blair produced next was more genuine. "Yeah, I sell his cancelled checks on Ebay." 

"Jean was in the service, too," Jim put in quickly, looking uncomfortable. "The Canadian Women's Army Corp during World War II." "I was boring Jim with my war stories earlier," she said, indicating a nearby stack of scrapbooks. "I always unpack my pictures first. It makes a new place feel like home." 

"Look here, Sandburg," Jim said, picking up the first one and flipping through the pages, pointing to a formal portrait of Jean in dress uniform. The young CWAC gazed serenely at the camera, hair and eyes shining. 

Blair thought she looked like an old soul in a youthful body. "This a lovely portrait." 

"Thank you. It was taken in Belgium. I traded my cigarette ration for it." 

"You haven't changed much," Jim said. 

"Really?" she asked, sounding pleased if disbelieving. She framed her face with her hands as if to smooth out the wrinkles. 

"Yes, really." 

Blair pointed to a candid photo on the opposite page of the young soldier posing on a beach. The notation beneath read Pas de Calais, France, 1943\. 

"You look just like the Canadian nurse in 'The English Patient' in this one." 

"No," Jean disagreed archly. "She looks just like me." 

Jim laughed. "What were you saying about looking back without arrogance, sunshine?" 

"Touch. My students think the whole world was black and white before 1950," said Blair, scanning the neatly arranged and labeled photographs. "Wow. It looks like you were stationed all over Europe." 

"I was a corporal, the company clerk of my unit. We left England for France right after D-Day. Then on to Belgium, Luxembourg and Germany. After VE-Day, I was sent back to England to the Canadian Wives Bureau in London to process the transit of war brides from Liverpool to Halifax." 

"Why'd you join up?" 

"Oh...patriotism, adventure...no interesting men left at home," she smiled. "The potential of military life seemed more lucrative and exciting than anything else available. The recruiting films made it look so glamorous. They showed female soldiers in smart dress uniforms putting on their lipstick - ha! - as if we ever had the time or means in reality. And the idea of an exciting job for a woman was to be an admiral's secretary." 

"Women had just been incorporated into the service the year before," she continued, "and then only because it was considered senseless to tie up men on laundry detail when women could do the job just as well! But the needs quickly became greater. Soon we were working in combat zones - as drivers, messengers, clerks. These days, Canadian women can enter any combat occupation and serve in any environment. They have all the same career opportunities as men." 

"Well, maybe the U.S. military will follow suit one day," said Jim. "I'm familiar with all the arguments for and against women in combat, but I haven't heard anything yet that justifies the discrimination." 

"That's an enlightened attitude, coming from a macho ex-Ranger." 

Jim shrugged. "Times change. People change." 

"It all comes down to cultural perceptions," Blair put in. "Sir Richard Burton, the explorer, not the actor, wrote a fascinating book called the "Amazons of Black Sparta" about the ruthless warrior women of 19th-century Dahomey. They would actually cut off one breast so they could use a bow more effectively, and they..." 

"Sandburg," Jim interrupted. "Put a lid on it." 

"Sorry," Blair said, sounding offended. "Hey, is this is Mr. Ashe?" he asked, pointing to a photo of a striking older man whose love for the photographer was evident from his big smile. 

"Yes, that's my Joseph," she said, gazing down at the picture with fond wistfulness. "My family wrote to servicemen through a program sponsored by the Red Cross. I began writing to Joseph before I enlisted in 1942. He had immigrated to Nova Scotia from Ireland. We met in London in 1943, and married after I returned to Canada three years later." 

"Sounds like an early-day Internet romance," said Jim with a smile. 

"He looks a bit like Richard Burton," Blair put in. "The actor, not the explorer." 

"Welsh, Irish, all the same blood. He wasn't the tallest of men, but he had the biggest heart." 

"Yeah, well. Big things come in small packages, you know," said Blair cheerfully. 

"He was an open-handed only-child, an Irishman, generous to a fault. I was more frugal, more reserved, having grown up in a large family during the Depression. We...learned from each other. Completed each other. Raising a family...earning a living...our interests, our beliefs...everything we did, we did together. We were quite a team." 

"He give you this?" Jim distracted her gently, extracting a yellow satin pillow with long purple fringe from among the other sofa cushions. Embroidered on it in burgundy thread was Athena, the warrior goddess and emblem of the CWAC. 

Jean winced. "No, that was a gift from another soldier. It's a bit tacky, I know...but it has great sentimental value." She surreptitiously wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. 

"Ah," Jim nodded his head in understanding. "That's why I keep Sandburg around." 

"I would be hard pressed," said Blair, "to describe a mature lady with a massive Harley as 'reserved'." 

Jean laughed, grateful for the change of subject. "I just got back from a motorcycle tour of the Himalayas last month. We got special permission from the government to go through the Khardung Pass above the Tibetan Plateau in northern India. It's the highest pass in the world opened to motorized traffic. Foreigners can't cross it without special permission." 

"That's...that's incredible," said Blair, dumbfounded. "Maybe you'll tell me about it sometime?" 

"Of course," she assured him. "I'll have my pictures back in a few days." 

"So what brings you to Cascade, Jean? Road rally? Demolition derby?" Jim teased. 

"Oh, I've always had a touch of wanderlust. And now that my daughters have their own lives and careers, I can indulge it." 

"Is this them?" Blair asked, pointing to another photo. 

Jean nodded. "Yes...Vicky and Marion." 

"Yeah, that's the stuff," Blair said appreciatively. 

"Hooah," added Jim. 

Blair turned to his friend. "Excuse me?" 

"What, you've never heard me say, 'Hooah'?" 

"Well," Blair said, flashing a nervous glance at Jean, "on certain occasions...I didn't realize it was an actual _word_ or anything...I think Al Pacino said it in a movie, once." 

"Army slang for anything and everything except 'no'. Generally used when at a loss for words," Jean supplied. 

"'Great, glad to meet you, I don't have the vaguest idea, I'm not listening, you've got to be kidding, yes, thank you, you did the right thing, that's neat, go to the next slide...'" added Jim helpfully. 

"'...I don't know what that means, but am too embarrassed to ask for clarification?'" asked Blair. 

"Hooah," chorused the veterans. 

"Hooah," Blair echoed. 

"Enough about me, Jim. I'm sure you must have some real whoppers to tell," Jean invited, laying a hand on his arm. 

"Yeah," encouraged Blair, secretly dying to hear Jim's recollections as well. "What did the native say to the postmodern anthropologist? 'Enough about you, let's talk about me.'" He laughed at his own joke, then faltered at the blank looks on Jim and Jean's faces. "Never mind." 

Jim shrugged. "Well...I was in the Airborne Army Rangers, Special Ops. Half my war stories are classified, and the other half aren't fit to repeat to a lady." 

"I remember one incident where I was to type up a report prepared by one of the men concerning a rather vivid description of an event between two soldiers," said Jean. "After reading the report, the provost marshal decided it was far too explicit for me to type." 

"Yeah...?" Jim grinned. "We had a platoon sergeant whose favorite phrase was 'READ MY LIPS!'. One day Sarge was extremely unhappy with the male members of the platoon and hollered out for the females to 'COVER YOUR EARS!' - to which the woman beside me answered, 'That won't work anymore, Sargeant, you taught us to read lips!' I myself think a man is no match for an expert female swearer...I mean, I once heard a female drill sergeant tell three privates that when she called them to attention, she wanted to see..." Jim stopped short and eyed his avid audience. "Um...like I said...," he trailed off. 

"Jim, I doubt you can shock either of us," Jean encouraged. 

"Well...um...I'll give you the politically correct version, and you'll have to imagine what she really said, OK? She said she wanted to see 'six breasts at attention and three...um...vaginas snap.'" 

This predictably sent his partner off into gales of laughter, while Jean, despite her former assurances, looked startled. "My...how times have changed," she said. 

Blair, wiping his eyes with mirth, saw that Jim was genuinely embarrassed. "Revisionist history if I've ever heard it," he said, deciding to throw him a bone. "Jim, man, why don't you tell Jean about the Chopec?" 

"Oh, yes!" Jean exclaimed, genuinely fascinated. "I'd love to hear about that." 

Now on familiar territory, Jim gratefully launched into the lecture he had refined to an art form after repeating it twenty-one times to Sandburg's Anthro 101 classes. 

As Jim recounted the familiar tale, Blair's attention wandered to an object protruding from the top of an open packing crate. Was that...?! It was. Grinning with delight, he extracted a suitcase-style picnic basket just like the one he and Naomi used to take out to the fields on the kibbutz. Resting beside it was a wooden platter carved with regimental insignia... 

Absorbed in his explorations, Blair did not immediately suss the moment Jim stopped talking. Eventually, he looked up to find his two companions staring silently, only then realizing that he had rummaged through the entire carton uninvited. Jean's momentos, including a delicate Limoges demi-tasse, a pair of silver wine goblets and a stack of elaborate but unsigned greeting cards tied with ribbon lay strewn on the floor around him. On his lap rested a framed display which held an impressive array of military stars and bars, insignias and medals. 

"Oh. Um. Ha...sorry," he apologized sheepishly. "I'm an anthropologist...it's second nature. We go and live with people in their native villages, eat what they eat..." 

Jim gave a derisive snort. 

"...live how they live," continued Blair, undeterred, "and ask lots of questions about the things they do. Like how they organize their households, what kinds of work they do, the histories of their families and village, about their sex lives, friendships, politics, and things like that." 

Jean regarded him cooly. "And is this any of your business?" 

Jim laughed out loud. 

"Forgive me for being personal," Jean said pointedly, "but your backgrounds are so different. How did you happen to meet?" 

"I contacted Jim several years after he returned from Peru," Blair replied smoothly. "Native South American tribes are a special passion of mine, and I wanted to talk to him about his experiences living among the Chopec." He shrugged. "We just...hit it off." 

"Do you mind if I take a look?" Jim asked, reaching for the display case. "Wow. Quite an impressive collection. You were injured overseas," he noted, pointing to one of her uniform stripes. 

"Yes, during the Blitz. I was struck by debris from a wall that was bombed. And my residence in France was strafed by the Luftwaffe. Fortunately, I was in the basement at the time. You must have a lot of medals, Jim," she prodded. 

"Ah, yeah. Somewhere. I think my dad keeps them in a box with some other stuff. My unit coin, for one thing. Guess I'd better get that back, or I'll be paying for a lot of drinks." 

"Aren't you proud of your service?" she asked, a bit sharply. 

"I'm proud that I did my duty," Jim replied slowly. "Unfortunately, the words 'duty', 'honor' and 'country' don't always go together these days. The medals don't have the same meaning. Hell, the service issued more awards than there were participants for Granada. A Bronze Star wasn't much more than an 'I was there' badge." He fell silent for a few moments and stared down at his glass, his expression haunted. "Not like in your time. That was the good war." 

"There are no good wars," she said firmly, patting his shoulder. "Only good causes." 

Jim did not reply. 

In the silence that followed, Jean took note of her guests' empty glasses. "How about a refill on that root beer?" 

"Sure, thanks, uh-huh," said Blair, supressing a grin. 

"Ah..sure, Jean, thanks," Jim said, extending his glass reluctantly. 

"Not a word, Sandburg," warned Jim, as Jean disappeared into the kitchen. 

"Not a one, doughboy. I understand it's the preferred beverage of famous flying aces." 

"Look, Snoopy. And I do mean snoopy. All our other neighbors can kiss my ass and wipe your butt. But this one is _mine_." 

"Jim," Blair said doubtfully. "I didn't realize you were into that." 

"Fuck off. Listen, Chief, I am sorry about dinner, but -" 

"I know, I know. You don't worship me. S'ok...I'm glad you've found a playmate. Y'know, I think my jealousy is misdirected. It's that Harley that's going to come between us." Blair leaned close to Jim's ear. "Maybe she'll let us borrow it tonight, 'Officer Steele'." 

"I haven't fixed her faucet yet," said Jim shortly. 

"Well...you finish up her plumbing...and then I'll do yours." 

"Back off, Sandburg!" Jim snapped. 

"Is something wrong?" Jean asked as she returned to the room. 

"Oh, Jim's just jealous because his hair wouldn't clog a drain," Blair improvised, sitting back in his chair and tapping his foot nervously. 

Jim accepted his glass, then leaned over to rescue a photo that had slipped from the scrapbook to the floor. In it, Jean stood shoulder to shoulder with a dark-haired man in uniform, their arms looped around each other's waist. Neither was smiling; Jean looked defiant, the man wary. The gesture struck Jim as more supportive than romantic. 

"Old flame?" he asked, handing it to Jean. 

"Ah. Well...we went out a few times to the Hammersmith Overseas Club and Stagedoor Canteen on Piccadilly. And we went to Paris together, along with another couple." 

"Oooh-la-la." 

"No, it wasn't like that. Though my husband was always jealous of him. Silly man. There was an...incident...just a few weeks after this was taken. Battle fatigue, most likely. A delayed reaction of some kind. He was transferred home, and I never saw him again. I tried the record office in Knightsbridge, but they couldn't tell me anything." 

"What happened?" Jim asked quietly. 

"He was brandishing a weapon...threatening people and screaming about lights and noises and smells. They wouldn't let anyone get too close...but I was able to calm him down by talking to him from a window of the building. Got him to put the gun down, so he could be helped." She traced the edge of the photo thoughtfully. "You remind me of him, Jim." 

Blair suddenly shot out of his chair, shooting root beer through his nose. 

"Geez, Chief. No more caffeine for you, buddy. Aw, what a mess. Jean...you got anything to clean this up with?" 

"Oh, dear....my supplies are still packed." 

"I'll just run up to the loft and grab something, OK?" Jim said, heading for the door. "Way to go, Mr. Pibb," he said to Blair in parting. 

"Listen, lady," Blair said, leaning far into her personal space the second they were alone. "Jim and I are together in _every_ way. You got it?" 

Jean met his gaze calmly. "I've known that since I went out on my balcony this afternoon to drink a cup of tea. I may not have been assigned to cryptography, but I could still decipher _that_ code." She met his gaze calmly. "It might have bothered me at one time, but fortunately I've since realized that love is much too precious a commodity to reject for any reason." 

"That's not what I'm talking about, and you know it," said Blair, flushing. "I've spent my life getting ready for him. I chose a career that would allow me to get away with all kinds of shit, because no one's sure what I do for a living. I found a way to travel the world without wearing a suit or a uniform. I hiked through swamps and up active volcanoes to talk to hermits that made the guys from Deliverence look harmless. I lived with cranky headhunters because they accepted my theory as fact. I traveled five continents. I learned seven languages. I made contacts in every hospital, free clinic, police department, security firm, homeless shelter and monastery in the vicinity of Cascade. He was the most precious person in my life before I ever laid eyes on him." 

"And after I found him," Blair continued, "I camped out in my office for two days, living on stale granola bars and bad coffee, even pissing out the window, I was so afraid I'd miss him if he showed up. Since then, I've been shot at, poisoned, hunted and beaten. I've jumped over a cliff and out of an airplane. I've become a de facto police detective, for which my mother still doesn't, and may never forgive me. And, oh yeah - I even died. All for _him_. You. Can't. Have. Him." 

Blair paused just long enough to take a breath. "It's not my fault if you couldn't hold on to yours. If it's any comfort, he was probably too far gone anyway. Once they are incarcerated in a psych ward or a prison..." 

At Blair's last words, Jean's face paled and she looked down. 

"Sandburg, what the _hell_...?" Jim interrupted, the entire diatribe having been perfectly audible to him from upstairs. He stood in the doorway, staring at his partner incredulously. 

"Blair seems to have the impression that I want to steal you away from him," Jean said, seemingly unperturbed. "I'm terribly flattered..." 

Blair's eyes narrowed, easily seeing the pretty young woman she had been, the one whose compelling voice and manner had calmed and distracted a man on the verge of insanity... 

"...unfortunately, I'm more than old enough to be your mother." 

"That's another thing!" Blair burst out. "What would he do when you're gone? Find someone your own age!" 

"That's it," Jim pronounced, face flaming with anger and embarrassment. He took Blair's arm and pulled him toward the door. "I'm so sorry about this, Jean. I'll make it up to you. Come up to the loft tomorrow and I'll heat up the steaks." 

"There _are_ no steaks!" Blair screamed, yanking his arm free of Jim's grip. "The fucking steaks are in the trash!" 

"Or maybe we'll just throw Sandburg on the grill," Jim gritted, wrestling his agitated Guide through the door and into the hallway. 

* * *

They got as far as the stairwell landing, where Blair leapt up to the second riser, whirled and kissed Jim hard. "Mine. Mine. Mine," he said, between fevered nips and kisses wherever he could find bare flesh. 

"What is _wrong_ with you, Chief?" Jim asked, anger fading as he felt Blair shaking beneath his hands. "Talk to me." 

"Jean's a _Guide_ , Jim. An unbonded Guide. And she wants what's mine." 

"What...?! You're crazy." 

"The inexplicable wanderlust, the calm demeanor, strong sense of loyalty and duty, choice of career among those with a need to serve and protect, diversity of interests, avid curiosity, her automatic attraction to you and you to her...?!!" Blair babbled. 

Jim, official U.N. translator of Blairbabble, clued in swiftly. "My God," he whispered. 

"Why are you surprised? It's Grand Shaman Station around here! The only difference is, most Sentinels and Guides never make their connections," Blair said hysterically. His eyes took on a distracted expression, though he never once loosened his grip on his Sentinel's biceps. "This tosses the theory that all Sentinels mate with their Guides. Perhaps the instincts of unbonded Guides are subsumed to some extent by their social values and cultural conditioning. Or maybe you and I are just deviant..." 

" _You_ are," Jim interjected. "Dammit, Chief, stop talking like we're a couple of salmon swimming upstream to spawn." 

"Great idea," Blair said quickly, plastering himself to his Sentinel. "I'm going to mount you and stuff you," he whispered, tonguing the outer shell of Jim's ear. 

"Blair," Jim said, holding him away and giving him a little shake. "Weren't you listening to Jean? Didn't you see the look on her face when she talked about her husband? Love is a choice, not a compulsion. It's more powerful than _any_ instinct." 

"Is that what we're talking about here? Love?" Blair asked, stepping back, making a visible effort to corral his emotions. 

"You tell me," Jim replied. "In the whole of your impressive little speech, I didn't once hear the word. Sounded more like you're looking for a return on your investment. Payment for all your trials and tribulations on my behalf." 

"My God, Jim - of course I love you! Why the hell would I _do_ all that otherwise...?!" 

"Your doctorate. Your career. Hell, for all I know, you were hard-wired to hunt me down." 

"I could have gotten the doctorate without you, you arrogant asshole." 

"What, write about something other than Sentinels? Give up your cherished life-long ambition?" 

"I DID WRITE ABOUT SOMETHING ELSE!" 

Blair spent the next few seconds mentally cursing himself, as Jim stared at him in slack-jawed disbelief. "I wrote my dissertation on closed societies," he confessed quietly. 

"You wrote about...why?! Why...?!" 

"To protect you. It would have been too dangerous to publish the Sentinel research - you know that. Don't tell me you weren't afraid of the potential consequences." Blair managed a short, self-deprecating laugh. "But when nothing happened afterwards, you concluded that 'nobody reads that academic crap' - which made it easy for me to -" 

"Then what the _hell_ were all the tests and experiments for?" Jim interrupted. "Comic relief?" 

"They were for _you_ \- and for me. So I would know how to Guide you. The diss was just an excuse to hang around until you caught the clue bus. I don't need anything from you...but you," he finished, holding his hands out palms up. "I love you, and I have to keep you safe. But you don't..." he trailed off miserably, leaving the thought unspoken. 

"I do, you know," Jim said finally, after a minute or two. 

"Yeah? How am I supposed to believe that?" 

The obvious desperation on Blair's face broke Jim's heart. "My God, do you really believe I'd lay down with you every night if I only needed you to Guide me? Chief, I was so damn angry when you made yourself out to be my whore. Like making love to you is some kind of instinctive behavior on my part, or worse yet, that I would look at you and think, 'Well, since I'm stuck with him, I guess I'll see if he's a good fuck.' But I guess if you don't know how much I love you, it must be my fault for not making it plain." 

Jim slid his hands down Blair's forearms and grasped his hands tightly. 

"I'm not with you because I have to be, Chief. I want to be." 

Wide indigo eyes, shimmering with tears that refused to be shed, stared back at him uncertainly. 

"Believe it, Chief. Let yourself believe it. It's the truth. I love you." He reached up, locking arms with Blair, and pulled gently. "Dear Lord, so much...c'mon baby...come here and let me show you how much." 

Blair stumbled down the steps, into Jim's arms and his heart, forever. 

* * *

Jim woke the next morning just as Blair appeared naked at the top of the stairs, fresh from his first shave of the day. "Reporting for duty, Captain Ellison, SIR!" he shouted, coming to attention and saluting Jim smartly with his morning woody. 

Jim performed a thorough inspection before returning the gesture with weary admiration. "At ease, privates," he said, addressing Blair's genitals. "My family housing group has no vacancies, if you catch my drift. And, no," he said, before Blair could open his mouth, "that is _not_ a subject I want to discuss two days running." 

Blair dived under the covers Jim held up for him. "Cold, cold, cold. I think the thermostat's broken again." 

"Damn," said Jim, not really caring. "Much better," he added, stroking Blair's now-smooth jaw. 

"Can I help it if I have an abundance of testosterone?" Blair shivered and snuggled closer. "They'll find us here, you know, eons from now," he continued. "Perfectly preserved in the act. They'll put us on display behind velvet ropes and charge admission. We'll be fucking for all eternity." He snuggled in the crook of Jim's arm and traced the well-defined muscles rippling just beneath the skin. "Do you know that up until very recently, I could name every bone in the human body, but none of the muscles?" 

Jim smiled. 

"My Holy Grail." 

"I feel more like the Dead Sea Scrolls. You?" 

"Like I've been mauled by a giant Pliocene clam." 

They lay for a time in companionable silence, watching the sunlight creep slowly across the room and up to the foot of the bed. 

"Chief, I think we should get a waterbed," Jim announced suddenly. 

"Why's that?" 

"I figure one really good bounce, and the bed will do the rest." 

"Nope. That's just a line that the salespeople use. Yes," Blair forestalled, "I spent a summer working in my cousin's furniture store. You need to keep in shape, Jim. DROP AND GIVE ME FIFTY, CAPTAIN!" 

With a groan, Jim positioned himself over Blair's body and proceeded to do modified straight-armed push-ups. 

"If...it...had been...like this in training...it would have been a lot more fun," he gasped a few minutes later, reaching for a towelette. 

His human exercise mat, on whom he had collapsed on number 39, struggled for breath. "God bless our boys out of uniform," Blair said fervently. "Hey," he asked a minute or two later, "tell me one of those Ranger stories you couldn't repeat to Jean." 

Jim sighed, thinking that Blair sounded like a child asking for an adult bedtime story. He rolled over, taking his lover with him, and considered. 

"OK, Chief, I'll tell you what I remember about being a Ranger. I remember a guy freezing his dick to his zipper and still driving on with a road march. I remember the same guy getting his head shot off on a live fire. I remember thinking I would die from the heat. I remember thinking I would die from the cold. I remember how the air smells different above 10,000 feet. I remember how mud and dirt looks the same all over the world. I remember grabbing a six-foot rattlesnake by the tail and pulling him out of his hole, because I was really hungry...so you see, my culinary standards aren't all that high. I should probably be grateful for nopales, but see, I also remember that in some cultures they mix prickly pears with mortar to give it greater adhesiveness." 

Blair lay silent atop him, breathing ever faster. 

"I remember my friends," Jim continued. "My Ranger buddy, Termite. I called him that 'cause he came from a Washington logging family. We were left sitting in a Huey with the rest of our patrol for a long time, waiting for the ceiling to lift before taking off for the Chopec pass. The copter blades beating my thoughts into submission. Adrenaline making me automatically replay our mission's operation order though my mind. Then a sharp slap on top of my steel pot breaks the trance. It's Termite, asking if I remembered to put my pantyhose on. A lot of us wore 'em, see, to keep warm and dry on cold, wet patrols. Puts his hand on his hip and mockingly asks me, 'What color do you think I'd look good in?' and a bunch of other shit. Damn. We laughed till our sides ached. Really broke the tension." 

"After we crashed..." Jim paused to take a long breath. "After we crashed, I found Termite on top of the main bulk of the wreckage, folded in half, one leg pointed skyward, glazed eyes staring right through me. I found his other leg somewhere in the clearing. And damned...." Jim drew another breath, harder than the first, and felt Blair's hand curl tightly around his wrist. "Damned if that bastard didn't have pantyhose on." 

A hot tear hit his chest and trickled slowly down his ribs. Blair was crying. Crying for Termite and the others. And for Jim, who, in shock, pain and all alone, had collected and buried the broken remains of his friends. 

Jim merely stared at the ceiling, jaw jumping. It would, or should, be so easy to join him. To give himself over to the long-buried grief, be lifted in strong arms and comforted. He tried to imagine what it would feel like. 

A part of him had died that day, along with his buddies. He knew he was crippled emotionally. God knows, Carolyn had driven that home to him. And yet, just as physically handicapped people found ways to regain their independence, he had been restored by the man in his arms, the one who was everything he was not. 

"'Readily will I display the intestinal fortitude required to fight on to the Ranger objective and complete the mission, though I be the lone survivor,'" he intoned softly. "The last line of the Ranger's Creed, Chief." Jim shifted uncomfortably. "When I got back, they sent me to Military Intel for thirty days to 'humanize' before going home. Do you understand now? Why it's hard for me?" 

"I do," said Blair, stroking Jim's jaw. "Thank you for telling me." 

Jim closed his eyes, the simple gesture of comfort almost more than he could bear. 

"Listen," Blair continued some moments later, "your situation was extreme, but weren't you trained to work with the other guys in the unit to get the job done? Try to think of us as our own little battalion of two. Like Jean and Joseph did." 

Jim laughed at the image and patted Blair's ass affectionately. 

"What...?!" asked Blair suspiciously, glad to have cheered his lover, but feeling the unspecified need to defend himself. 

"I'm just picturing you in the Rangers," he said. "You'd be nude, screwed and tattooed before the ink was dry on the enlistment papers, pretty boy. You know what we called baby Rangers? 'Cherries'." 

"Oh, man." 

"Hooah." Jim glanced at the bedside clock. "I hate to say it, my little cherry, but I've got to go in to catch up on some work today. I promised Simon I'd wrap up the Duncan file this weekend so it can go to the D.A.'s office first thing in the morning." 

"Stay," Blair murmured. He ran his foot up and down Jim's calf. "I'll make it worth your while." He laid sloppy kisses over Jim's smooth chest, finally latching onto a taut nipple. "I'll tell Simon you had Sentinel PMS. He won't wait to hear another word. Sure-fire." 

Jim's arms came around his lover automatically. "Blair, if I blow this off, I'll get busted all the way down to the division that investigates unauthorized removal of mattress tags." 

Blair dug beneath the sheets, located the mattress tag and tore it off. He brandished the evidence smugly. "There...now you're on duty. Cuff me, Officer Steele. Show me what happens to little hippy witch doctor punks who don't show proper respect to your bedding." 

Jim threw the sheets and covers to the bottom of the bed in one sweep, snagged a large bolster pillow, and proceeded to manhandle his suspect into submission atop it. "You know why Rangers keep their hair so short?" he taunted his immobile captive. "So the enemy can't grab it in hand-to-hand combat." 

"Ah...same reason I keep mine long," gasped Blair. 

"If I had a big Harley," Jim murmured with more than a trace of regret, "I'd bend you over the seat so your legs danged over either side and your criminal ass was raised in the air. Like so." He rummaged quickly in the toy drawer. "Then I'd cuff your hands to the handlebars. Like...so. And then I'd..." 

Blair bucked against his restraints, intentionally resisting arrest. "Then you'd take out your...umm...your "billy club"...oh, Jesus, Jim....and work me over good. Like _so_!" he said, trying to push backwards. 

"Nope. I'd spank your bare ass red," he said. Blair yelped when Jim's hand descended on his butt forcefully. 

"Oh...yeah!" Blair agreed, struggling dramatically. "Give me what I've got coming! Teach me to respect authority." 

Jim burst out laughing, unable to stay in character. "You're unbelievable! Is there anything you _don't_ like?" 

Blair thought. "I don't like mayonnaise. Risk of salmonella poisoning." 

"I wasn't talking about food." 

"I know." 

"All right, then," Jim said, hopping off his bed to retrieve his belt from the pile of discarded clothing on the floor. "You asked for it." Climbing back on the end of the bed, he ran the leather slowly down Blair's spine and through the cleft of his perfect ass. "Safeword," he purred. 

"Ah....'clam'," Blair replied distractedly. "No wait, I might scream that out in the throes of passion. 'Pearl'." 

"Clams don't make pearls," Jim argued. 

"Jim," Blair gasped, "Clams don't have penises, either. You do. Take advantage." 

"OK," Jim agreed readily, tossing the belt to the floor. "Spread 'em." 

A through "frisking" ensued. "What's this?" Jim asked, hand closing around Blair's cock. "Carrying a concealed weapon, eh? You got a permit for this sawed-off shotgun, punk? Or is it just a little toy popgun?" 

"It's a lethal weapon, man," the squirming suspect protested. "With an inlaid mother-of-pearl handle." 

Jim snatched back his hand immediately. 

"What....?! WHAT...?!?" demanded Blair. 

"You said your safeword." 

"It was a hyphenated word!" Blair said hysterically. "Hyphenated words don't count!"" 

"Pardon me, Sandburg, I thought we were fucking, not playing Scrabble. Stop jerking my chain, punk," he continued. "You picked the wrong mattress this time. I'm gonna give you a good old-fashioned ass-whuppin'." He drew back his arm and smacked the aforementioned ass with a resounding crack. "Count 'em." 

"One. Uh...two. Three!" gasped Blair, humping the pillow frantically. "I was only trying to bring attention to the world-wide infestation of dust mites." 

"Oh, so you're a consumer advocate, is that it? What the hell are you talking about?" 

"Dust mites account for 10% of the weight of every mattress over five years old, man. When they're disturbed, their fecal particles hang in the air for ten minutes. The public has a right to know, man." 

"You're kidding!" asked Jim, looking around frantically, then realized that Blair was shaking with silent laughter. 

"OUCH! That one hurt!" 

Jim crawled up and over Blair's body to whisper into his ear. "It seems to me that you're the only one having a good time here," he said, in a deceptively gentle voice. He paused briefly, then reached beneath the squirming captive to stroke him with a hand slickened with lube. "How about I get us both off, if you know what I mean?" 

His prisoner immediately indicated his acceptance of the proposed terms. 

"Good boy." Jim tongued a leisurely, meandering path from the nape of Blair's neck and down his spine to the dark cleft of his ass. Pushing gently on the still-pink cheeks, he continued on to the puckered prize, probing with his tongue to gauge his lover's readiness. 

"Please...I promise...just...please..." Blair moaned, raising himself on his palms. 

"Officer Steele" took himself in hand and, pushing but not forcing, pressed until he felt Blair's body grant him entrance. 

Jim paused once they were completely coupled, hanging his head and willing control, closing his eyes against the sight of his body joined with his squirming lover's. "Yeah. Oh, yeah. Real sweet. Be still," he ordered, voice rough, swatting Blair's ass again. After a few moments, he pulled back and slammed in, hard. "Keep counting." 

"Six. Sev-en. Eight...uh...nine...nine-and-a-half..." The latter being said as Jim's rhythm faltered, and was rewarded with another unexpected smack on the butt. Each number was separated by a sharply indrawn breath. 

"Eleven...twelve....thir-TEEN...four-...Off...Officer...Jim, I...I can't...PEARL!" Blair suddenly shrieked. "Mother of -" 

Jim laughed. "It sure is, baby," he agreed, reaching around to fondle Blair's cock. "Finest kind." 

"God, Jim, STOP! PEARL! PEARL! Earrings! String of! Buttons...!" 

"What is it?" Jim gasped. "Oh God, did I hurt you?" He let go of Blair's faltering cock as quickly as if it had suddenly become red-hot. 

Blair screamed, the sound muffled by the pillow, as was Jim's original intent. But it was clear that something had gone terribly wrong. 

"No...NO...but it's happening again...too much...help me..." 

"Do you want me to pull out?" Jim asked, panicked. 

"NO! No...don't move...don't talk...don't breath...please, oh please." Blair's shackled hands clawed pitifully at the bedding and he buried his face in the pillow, whispering the word "pearl" over and over. 

It took every ounce of will power Jim had not to come as Blair spasmed on his cock. He held himself away from Blair's body, head turned away so his rapid breaths would not ghost across Blair's skin. But even the trembling of his muscles as he strove to remain motionless and the answering vibration of the mattress was enough to cause his lover distress. Blair moaned as a drop of sweat rolled down Jim's chest and onto his back. 

It was four agonizing minutes before Blair said, "OK. OK. OK. I think...I think it's letting up." 

Jim gasped in relief and pulled out in one slow, steady motion. Backing off the end of the bed, he stared down at his tight balls and purpling erection. Gritting his teeth, he quickly and efficiently remedied the situation, as his lover was in no condition to assist. 

"Sorry...I'm sorry....I'm sorry," came the low, miserable litany from the bed. "I just wanted to feel it as intensely as you do." 

"And got a panther by the tail, instead?" Jim asked, supressing a shameful surge of machismo. "Just dial it down, Chief. Deep breaths. You're OK. That's it." He watched carefully until he saw the stiff posture of pain relax into exhausted lassitude. "I don't think much of tantric sex, Chief," he said, quickly removing the handcuffs and entwining Blair's now-limp fingers with his own. 

"Now that I know how shamans borrow the power of a panther totem, I had to try it, didn't I? Sorry, Jim. I guess I'm not ready to play the Chopec Palace yet." 

"Don't be," Jim assured, squeezing Blair's hands. "I thoroughly enjoyed being sacrificed on top of your spirit altar earlier." 

"Not sacrificed...worshipped," Blair corrected with a thin smile. "I love you _and_ I worship you. Not enough to buy you a Harley," he added quickly as Jim opened his mouth to speak. "But you obviously survived the 'ritual.'" 

"Yeah, but it was the damndest CPR I've ever seen." 

Blair rolled over onto his side slowly, as though he still had 185 pounds resting on his back. "If you'd done it that way at the fountain, you'd have gotten a faster response," he grinned up at Jim, still too weak to raise his head from the pillow. 

Jim shook his head in amazement and crawled across up the bed to Blair's side. "I think I'm having a serious relapse," he said solemnly, pushing sweaty tendrils of hair off his lover's forehead and kissing it tenderly. "I'm afraid I'm going to need regular infusions of you for the rest of my life." 

"'Afraid...?'" 

Jim gathered Blair into his arms and massaged the overly-sensitive flesh gently with his big palms. "Scared shitless." 

Together they drifted off to sleep in the warmth of the morning sun. 

* * *

When Jim woke again, Blair was sitting beside him, bare legs folded into a lotus position, fingers flying across the keyboard of his laptop, buck naked save for his glasses. Sections of the Sunday paper were scattered like leaves over the rumpled bedclothes. "Hey," he greeted Jim affectionatelly. "Getting hungry?" 

"Depends," Jim replied warily. 

"Scrambled eggs and bacon? French toast?" 

"Both...?" Jim was mastering the fine art of culinary negotiation...ask for the BMW, settle for the Taurus. 

Blair surprised him by nodding in reluctant agreement. "Both." 

"God, I must have been good," Jim boasted. He raised himself on one elbow and stared at the laptop. Blair was finishing his paperwork on the Duncan case. 

"I thought those files were secure." 

Blair shrugged and kept on typing. 

"I'm supposed to do those myself, you know." 

"Well, you can sign your name to them." 

"Thanks, Chief." Jim leaned forward for a kiss. 

Blair met him halfway. "I have an ulterior motive," he murmured against Jim's lips. 

"I'll cook breakfast," Jim offered. 

"That's not it...but, yeah, OK. In the nude," demanded Blair. "I'll bring the laptop downstairs and enjoy the view from the kitchen table while I work." 

"Ouch, Chief. Hot bacon grease." 

"You can wear an apron." 

"Deal," Jim compromised, acknowledging that he was not the only master of negotiation present. He made a mental note to read Blair's report _very_ carefully before signing it. 

"Hey, Chief," he said tentatively. "I need to talk about what happened earlier." 

Blair tensed. "Jim, I can't explain what I don't fully understand myself." 

"Then how do you _know_ clams don't have penises?" 

Blair collapsed backwards onto the pillows, laughing. 

"I feel kind of sorry for them," Jim added, smiling lazily. 

"It's Trina's pick-up line," Blair explained. "Those crazy biologists. So much more creative than anthropologists. Mine was 'Do you believe in love at first sight, or do I have to walk by again?'" 

"Nah, Chief. You can stay right where you are." 

"Good," Blair replied, encircling Jim's broad shoulders as his lover rolled half-atop him. 

"I mean, clams aren't on the endangered species list or anything," Jim continued a couple of minutes later. 

Blair sighed. "Except on all-you-can-eat night at General Seafood. Look Jim, I'll prove it to you." Blair reached for the cell phone beside the bed and stabbed at the numbers. 

"Who are you calling? The public library?" 

Blair held up his middle finger to request silence. "Yes. I'd like to place a TRS call to Trina Williams at 555-1045, please. Yes, thank you. Trina? I'm sorry for calling you so early on a Sunday. No, nothing's wrong, but this is important. Do clams really not have dicks? No, I am _not_ coming on to you. Jim wants to know." 

Jim smacked Blair's forehead. 

"Trina, you know Jim doesn't have to resort to lame pick-up lines. It's purely scientific curiosity." There was a pause while Blair waited for the bemused communications assistant to type in his comments and relay Trina's response. "Umm. Oh. Uh-huh. Yeah, OK. Thanks." 

"Well?" 

"She says they issue sperm and have no heads. Like two guys she knows. And that she's going to print copies of this conversation off her text telephone and post them on the board outside my office." 

"Oh, great. Does she have trouble with this...with us, I mean?" 

"A woman who borrows evening wear from the guy next door? Don't think so." 

"She did look fantastic in his green halter dress," Jim recalled. 

"You always went for tall curvy redheads...who'da thought you'd wind up with a short brunette butch-type?" 

"There's nothing butch about you, pretty boy." 

"Oh, no? What's this, then?" Blair pressed Jim's hand to his newly-revived erection. 

"Well, I'd say what you've got there is your standard 8-inch Sentinel probe." 

"Standard...!? I'll have you know this is a finely-crafted precision instrument. Try it yourself." 

Jim fisted Blair's thick cock at the base and began to pump, alternating speed and grip. Blair leaned back on his elbows and let his head fall back with a shaky sigh. 

"I see what you mean," Jim said appreciatively. "It's a beauty. Self-sizing for fast, easy one-hand gripping." 

"Handle fits in the palm of your hand like a glove," Blair gasped. 

Jim pushed Blair back to the mattress and ducked his head. "Oh yeah...but is it waterproof?" 

"You're welcome to try it out." 

Jim engulfed Blair's cock with his wet mouth and began to suck gently. 

Blair promptly shrieked and shot his load down Jim's throat. 

"Guess not," Jim smiled, wiping his chin. "Quick-release ratchets." 

Blair pulled Jim down for a kiss. "But guaranteed forever." 

Jim sighed in contentment. "I'll take it." He rolled over on his back, bringing Blair with him, wanting to feel the aftermath of his lover's passion. 

"I'm sorry, Jim," Blair said quietly. "You and Jean have so much in common, I just went nuts." 

"You and _I_ have everything in common. We've both traveled the world. Lived in different cultures for extended periods. We both make our living through observation and deduction. We both live and die with the Jags. And we both have superb taste in lovers," he added, smiling faintly. "You're not the only one who's insecure. After all," he said, pulling back to look at Blair, "I literally couldn't have lived without you, Chief." 

"You left Incacha," Blair said quietly, giving voice to a long-concealed fear. 

"Incacha was only...doing his duty. Just like I was. He had a family that he loved very much." 

"Don't tell me the Chopec women weren't lining up outside your dwelling every night," Blair scoffed. 

"It was just the allure of being different. You should be familiar with that concept, Sandburg." Jim ducked as Blair reached to smack him on the forehead. "Incacha was the only one I trusted enough to let myself be that vulnerable with. He was the shaman...but you're my Guide. My only Guide," Jim said, dropping a kiss on Blair's head. "Plus, I didn't think it would be a good idea to leave any blue-eyed Chopec kids behind. The Rangers don't have a Peruvian War Brides Bureau." 

"Actually, Jim, you couldn't...blue would be the recessive gene...green eyes, maybe..." 

"Blair," Jim interrupted. "You could go on and have a happy and fulfilling life, like Jean did. Find yourself a pretty Jewish activist vegetarian environmentalist poet with great legs and raise a family." 

"That might have been true, once," Blair answered slowly. "But not any more - not since I fell in love with you." 

Blair pushed up to straddle Jim's body and two lovers shared a slow kiss of tender passion. "What can I do to make it up to you?" Blair asked, shifting his hips suggestively. 

"Umm...apologize to Jean and invite her to dinner?" 

Blair's head lolled forward, having clearly expected a different request. "What other thing?" 

Jim sighed. "Chief, I know that I'm the one who usually alienates the neighbors, but I really, really like Jean." 

"Probably an instinctive attraction," Blair grumbled. 

"I want you to let her read your research. I know it's asking a lot..." 

"Yes," Blair said emphatically. "Too much." 

"She deserves to _know_. Put yourself in her place." A slow smile crept across Jim's face. "Don't you trust me?" 

"Oh, dammit," Blair said in disgust. "You don't fight fair." 

"All's fair in love and war," Jim quoted, smiling. 

* * *

And so it came to pass that Sunday evening once again found Blair Sandburg hyperventilating outside #207, a pint of fresh blueberries balanced precariously atop the two large boxes stacked in his arms. 

Jean opened the door. "My goodness, Blair, you'd better come in before you drop something," she said mildly, as if he had never accused her of being a Sentinel-stealing slut of a Guide. 

"Ah...are you sure you want to invite a crazy man into your home?" Blair asked, following her inside and setting the boxes and berries on her now-tidy kitchen table. He noted absently that there were now three places set. "Um...I'd like to apologize for acting so strangely yesterday. I was accidentally dosed with Golden a couple of years ago during a case. Still have flashbacks. Jim's had to stop me from jumping out the window a couple of times. Once I thought the gas ring on the stove was a blue flower and tried to - " 

"You're in love," Jean interrupted. 

Blair blushed, then nodded agreement, smiling. "I'm in love," he affirmed. "Still throws me for a loop." 

"I suppose you picked those yourself?" she asked, indicating the incongruous blueberries. 

"Nope. They're on sale at the Harbour Market at the bottom of the hill. Don't tell Jim - he'd be disappointed in me." He popped a handful into his mouth. "Want some?" 

"Ah...no. Thank you dear. Joseph once came home with two large cardboard boxes of blueberries he'd picked on the base. He was so pleased with himself for delivering this great bounty, that I couldn't bring myself to remind him that we couldn't possibly eat them all. I turned them into jam and it was four years before we finished the last jar." Jean averted her eyes as Blair leaned over to retrieve a stray blueberry that had rolled beneath the table. "Dear, I'd be glad to patch up those jeans for you," Jean said. 

"Thanks, but these are my favorites. I intend to keep these until they are held together by eight loosely-connected denim molecules and have to be handled with tweezers." 

"Soon you won't be able to tell which holes your legs are supposed to go through," Jean observed. 

"Jim likes them the way they are," Blair confided. 

"Oh. I see. What else have you got there?" she asked, changing the subject. 

"Well, these," Blair said, lifting the lid on the first box, "are Jim's ribbons and medals. I just got them from his father." He extracted one of the numerous velvet-covered boxes and flipped it open, revealing a Purple Heart. They both stared at it silently for a moment, Blair wondering which of the many scars on Jim's otherwise perfect body was responsible for it. "I thought I'd have them mounted in a nice display, like yours are, for Jim's birthday." 

"That's a lovely gesture, but are you sure he'll appreciate it? He seems to have a lot of issues about his time as a Ranger. It's a bit odd. All the veterans I know will talk for hours at the drop of a hat. It's the defining part of their lives. My husband was so put out that I had more commendations than he did that he actually wrote the Army to see if he was owed another medal." 

"Seems we both know a lot about jealous, anal-retentive men," Blair said, smiling. 

"On our 23rd anniversary, Joseph sent me 23 roses. Not two dozen, mind you. 23 exactly." 

"Oh, yeah. I did that for Jim after we'd been...um...together...for ten days, but it was accidental. I bought a dozen, but a beer can rolled out of the bag and broke off two of the blooms. I never thought he'd actually _count_ them." 

"I suppose I'm guilty as well. I once wrote to an historian who had omitted my name from his history of the CWAC in World War II. I was included in a later addition. Hubris, I know, but who will remember our accomplishments if they're not recorded anywhere?" 

"I suspect Jim would rather forget some of the things he had to do. Last year, he read about the terrible mudslides on the northern coast of Peru that buried entire villages. Next morning, I found a note on the counter that said, 'Gone to Peru'. He used his...um...his military expertise...to locate survivors trapped under the mud. Trying to make amends, or...well, I don't know It's not something he talks about. But whatever his demons are, I think it's way past time for him to call a truce." 

Jean nodded agreement. "Age brings wisdom." She looked at Blair shrewdly. "For example...if you buy a really nice Harley, the Sentinels will come to you." 

Blair's mouth fell open. 

"It also works with digital cameras and puppets," she added, laughing at his stunned expression. "Don't worry, Blair. As Churchill once said, 'success is about going from failure to failure without losing your enthusiasm.' You've nothing to fear from me." 

"I did come here purposefully," she continued. "But I wasn't looking for Jim...I was looking for _you_. I was hoping you might share your research with me. I've had a wonderful, happy life, but now that my Joseph is gone...well...I was hoping to solve the mystery." 

Blair shook his head in disbelief. "How did you know? My research has never been published." 

"But you published papers on the concept of Sentinels when you were working on your Master's degree, didn't you? Imagine my shock when I met Jim and realized you had actually found one." 

"Yeah, well...knowing that makes it easier to give you this," Blair said, pushing the second box in her direction. 

Jean laid her hands on the lid and looked at him, puzzled. 

"Jim wants you to have it," Blair elaborated, still not able to do the deed graciously. "It's my Sentinel research. I originally planned to write my doctoral thesis around it, but it soon became obvious that I wouldn't be able to maintain my objectivity." 

"Corrupted your data, did you?" Jean asked. 

"Thoroughly," he admitted with a surprised laugh. "Anyway, you read through that, and then we'll discuss it. But it's _absolutely_ confidential, you understand?" 

"Completely," Jean said solemnly. 

"And if the guy downstairs should ask, Jim's in AA," he added, starting to relax. 

"The one who refers to you as 'the kid'? I didn't know who he was talking about at first." 

Blair rolled his eyes. "I could win the Nobel Prize, and Harve would still call me 'the kid'. Look, I was thinking. If you like, I could look through the computer databases down at the station. See if we could find any record of your Sentinel." 

"Thank you so much," she said, blue eyes shining. "I know it's highly improbable after all this time, but...I can't stop looking. Never could. At the grocery, at church, at the club...I was always looking. Do you understand?" 

"Completely," Blair said, smiling. 

"Perhaps if you can teach me what it is to be a...a Guide?...I can give you some pointers on being in love. Combine our fields of expertise, as it were." 

"I could use all the help I can get," Blair said self-consiously, considering the ups and downs of the past weekend. 

Jean lifted the lid on the box containing Blair's research. A well-thumbed book was laying on top of the rest. "'The Dance of Wounded Souls'?" 

"It helped me. Y'know. Before I found Jim...and for some time afterwards." 

Jean opened the book to a place Blair had marked and highlighted. "'Karmic settlement can take place from an encounter that lasts minutes or hours as well as a relationship that continues over years,'" she read. "'Because you feel a strong energetic connection with someone is not reason to abandon yourself. Even if you are sure someone is your...Twin Soul...you still need to be willing to let go of them. Perhaps you need to let go of them in this lifetime in order to reunite with them in the next.'" 

"It also explains the difference between "Soul Mates and Twin Souls," Blair said. "In case you ever wondered how you could feel such a strong and lasting connection to one man while loving another." 

"You have both in one," she observed, with a trace of awe. 

"Yeah," Blair acknowledged. "I have such good karma, it terrifies me. I guess I have an obligation to spread the wealth around." 

"You know," Jean said tentatively, "my eldest daughter just resigned her position to start looking for her own answers. She was terribly conflicted over the decision. I told her to honor the power of her feelings. I think...she may have the gift as well." 

"Well, ask her to come for a visit," said Blair, resigned. "When I teach a class, I like to have full sections. My chance to find out if there's a genetic component. But hands-off my Sentinel - both of you." 

"Well, I can't speak for Marion...but I promise," Jean said, grinning. 

"I'll deal with Marion when she gets here," Blair promised, a touch ominously. "In the meantime, would you like to join Jim and me for dinner tonight? Dim sum?" 

"Oh, I'd love to! But I don't eat duck feet," she warned. 

"Ah, Jean. And you call yourself a Guide." 

Finis~ 

Thank you for reading! Feedback of any kind humbly begged for. mmartin@eurekanet.com 

Nopales Rellenos (Stuffed Cactus Pads) 

12 tender cactus pads  
3 cups of water  
6 slices of Machego or Panela cheese  
1/4 onion, thinly sliced lengthwise  
1 clove of garlic  
Salt to taste  
1/2 cup of flour  
4 eggs, separated  
1-1/2 cups vegetable or olive oil  
1 can of tomato sauce (12 ounces) 

Select small or medium sized, firm pads. Make sure the pads you select are not wrinkled, soggy or too soft. They will range in color from pale to dark green. 

The thorny needles must be removed with a knife or vegetable peeler before cooking. Be sure to wear rubber gloves to avoid injury. Also remove any nodules, the thick stem, and trim the edges off the pads as well. Wash thoroughly. 

Boil pads in 3 cups of water with the garlic, onion and salt. Drain. On each of 6 cactus pads place a slice of cheese and 3 to 4 pieces of onion. Top with another cactus pad, secure with wooden toothpicks and coat with flour. 

Beat the egg whites until stiff peaks form, then add the yolks and beat for 1 to 2 minutes more to create a batter. 

Heat the oil in a frying pan, dip the stuffed cactus pads into the egg batter and fry until golden on both sides. Drain on paper towels. Serve drenched with cooked tomato sauce. 

* * *

End

 


End file.
